


Crop Tops and Testosterone Passion

by keeptheliealive



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, WIP, stripper!verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:14:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeptheliealive/pseuds/keeptheliealive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had no real reason to suspect that John was a stripper.</p><p>Sure, John had miraculously started coming up with rent payments that were on time, and even more surprisingly, paid in full. He’d been coming home later every night, sometimes by two or three hours. Sherlock assumed he’d been pulling overtime at the clinic.</p><p>But stripping? The thought had never crossed the detectives mind. His stocky little army doctor wouldn’t do such a thing - would he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Show Me (Yours First)

Sherlock had _no_ real reason to suspect that John was a stripper.

Sure, John had miraculously started coming up with rent payments that were on time, and even more surprisingly, paid in full. He’d been coming home later every night, sometimes by two or three hours. Sherlock assumed he’d been pulling overtime at the clinic.

But stripping? The thought had never crossed the detectives mind. His stocky little army doctor wouldn’t do such a thing - would he?

 

It started when John hadn’t been able to scrape up enough money to cover his share of the rent - for the third month in a row.

Sherlock had raised an eyebrow in John’s direction when he’d been handed a bunch of sweaty bills - crumpled and nearly £50 short - the day before Mrs. Hudson expected their pay. But he hadn’t said a word, merely threw in an extra £50 from his billfold, and forgotten the whole thing (it was likely Mycroft’s money anyway, which made Sherlock care even less). Sure, it’d been the third time in a row that it had happened, but it wasn’t as if John weren’t _trying_. It wasn’t _his_ fault that they were cutting hours at the clinic, and because John wasn’t technically a full-time doctor there anyway, he was one of the most deeply affected.

If John felt guilty for letting Sherlock help him out like this, he never said a word about it. Had Sherlock developed a better propensity for understanding human emotion, he would’ve understood John’s gratitude in the way he didn’t complain about having to take runs to the local Tesco for some milk after Sherlock drank it all or used it for an experiment and didn’t tell him. He would’ve gotten that the reason John had suddenly began leaving out a cup of tea – prepared how Sherlock liked it – and the daily news each morning before he left for work, was entirely out of appreciation for what the detective was doing for him. John had only taken the offer to flat-share with Sherlock because it had been affordable at the time. John had had enough extra money after paying rent to put a good sum of it away, keep the fridge stocked with things other than human body parts, and indulge in his favourite luxury brand of Earl Grey – the sort that came loose in an ornate tin and closed off with a bow. But now he could barely scrape up enough to keep him and Sherlock fed on a semi-regular basis – even more irregularly for when they were on a case – and get them around London in a taxi or by the tube. So while John never expressly thanked Sherlock for helping him out, he still felt gratitude toward the action and did all that he could to make sure Sherlock understood that.

The third time John had defaulted on coming up with rent, however, he’d noticed the look on Sherlock’s face – something akin to contempt. Not loathing, not really, but some shade of _God-John-seriously-how-many-more-times-is-this-going-to-happen?_ More like annoyance than anything. It was then that John realised it was up to him to make some compromises. Granted, stripping wasn’t his first idea (or second, or third – more like thirteenth) but it was the only legal, well-paying profession that would work _around_ his schedule at the clinic and be something he could hide from Sherlock for infinity.

God, Sherlock in a strip-club. The thought of it threatened to push John into belly-clutching hysterics. He could see how it would go down in his head – Sherlock walks in, saunters elegantly to the bar, is taken aback when they only serve shitty cheap beer and fruity drinks and not his preferred whiskey, settles on some coconut-rum concoction with a little umbrella, and leans back on his stool as the first couple performers take the stage. John imagines he’d remain collected, unperturbed by the male nudity. He figures Sherlock would easily convert it to something less-sexual, and into something more clinical. If that were the case, though, why would he be there in the first place? 

John fills in the details; it’s for a case, male stripper murdered for unknown reason. Sherlock deduces it’s a regular customer of the club where the deceased had performed. The stripper had declined to pursue a relationship with the customer, the customer became angry and waited for the club to close up before stalking outside for his stripper, dragging him to an alleyway, and beating him to death. John shuddered, suddenly realising what this entailed. The fact his own mind had created such a tale meant it wasn’t set so far from the _possibility._

John had come up with the scenario as he strode through London, dead-set for his destination. By the time he’d finished with his daydream, he found himself standing underneath a garish, magenta sign reading _Gentleman’s Club_ bracketed by two glowing male symbols. Gay, male strip-club. As far as John knew, this was the least likely place for Sherlock to turn up – Sherlock was married to his work, he wasn’t gay and he certainly wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this. It was the cleanest, most straight-forward (pun intended) club in greater-London; every one of the dancers ran a full battery of test for STIs and was given sick leave, paid vacation, and free healthcare. It was like striking gold. John took a deep breath, watched as he formed a fist around the cool metal pull-bar attached to the door and let himself inside.

It was love at first sight.

The place was simple and elegant, something not revealed by the shoddy exterior. There were three small stages at the front of the club, an inviting bar lining the right wall, and doors leading to private rooms and restrooms on the left. So far, so good.

”Can I help you?” a voice rings out from behind the bar. John refocuses his attention on the task at hand and clears this throat.

“Yeah, err, I was wondering if you needed any performers?” John said, cringing, “I mean, I’m looking to get hired and I wanted to work here? Maybe?” John sounded so unsure of himself for once. For god’s sake, he’d _killed_ people. Why was this getting to him?

The man behind the bar popped up from where he was stooped over, rearranging bottles of syrup from underneath the counter. John was instantly shocked at how handsome he was. Cropped, well maintained hair, brown, inviting eyes, and an olive complexion to _die for._ He couldn’t be a day over thirty, if that. A smile broke out on the man’s face when he realised how nervous John appeared.

“Don’t be a stranger,” he chortled, coming around the bar with his hand extended. John walked over and took it, shaking it firmly. “The name’s James”.

“Great to meet you, James,” John began, already feeling at ease from the warmth James exuded, “I’m John”.

James smiled again, releasing John’s hand.

“Well, skipping right over pleasantries, you’re looking for a job?”

John nodded, already nervous again. James took a step back from John and gave him a once-over, his eyes lingering a second too long on the hideous jumper John’d picked out of his closet that day. John wriggled under this much scrutiny, but managed to hold his ground. Having apparently seen all he needed, James’ face broke into another grin, this one a little less sure of himself, but no less warm.

“Well, from the looks of it, you’re qualified,” James began, “the only potential problem I see coming up might be your scar.”

John panicked, having forgotten entirely about that. His right hand ghosted up his chest to rest over where his jumper covered his shiny, thickened skin. That damned bullet wound.

“Umm, sorry, I hadn’t thought about that?” John gave a weak smile and hoped James wouldn’t turn him away just for that small detail. John certainly had other… assets. James hadn’t even seen those yet.

James pulled his face into a tight smile, and looked into John’s eyes with sympathy. Not a good sign.

“While I don’t think it would be a problem,” James said, “I’m still not totally comfortable with letting you in just like that. How physical are you?”

John perked up at the mention of his fitness. Yes, this might be where he’d excel.

“I’m actually in great shape, despite my age!” John grinned.

“Prove it,” James purred, his eyes narrowing. John shivered, his grin never wavering. He trailed both hands along the hem of his jumper and pulled up, tugging the lumpy fabric over his head, and completely off. James gave a low whistle, and let his eyes widen in surprise. “Well, you weren’t kidding.”

John chuckled, “Nope, not really.”

James stepped in closer, his eyes having found John’s scar. “Do you… do you mind if I touch it?” he asked, searching John’s eyes for discomfort. When John nodded his head slightly, James’ outstretched hand slowly found its way to rest against John’s chest, the flat of it covering the scar completely. John shivered in anticipation, not being used to anyone but himself touching that sensitive flesh. James noticed, and smiled.

“I actually don’t think this is going to be a problem at all”, James said with a smile, “and I’d be glad to have you come back tomorrow night for a trial run, if that’s fine by you?” John nodded enthusiastically and felt James’ hand slip from his chest and ever so slightly brush against his cloth-sheathed cock. James gave him another, slightly more feral grin. “Wear your most favourite pair of pants. We’ll have you outfitted tomorrow and running routines. Be here by eight?”

“Eight sounds awesome, I love eight,” John panicked, suddenly self-conscious of the fact he was shirtless with a complete stranger. A cute stranger, nonetheless. James thought this was funny and brushed it off with a round of gratuitous laughter.

“See ya, then, soldier!” James laughed, making his way back around the bar. John gave a feeble wave before pulling his jumper back over his head and high-tailing it out the door.

On the walk home, John thought everything through, his stage fright, his body-image issues, the fact he was going to be stripping for gay men and he was _not gay _. Again, how Sherlock wouldn’t ever find out about this in a million years.__

Not once did it occur to John to question how James had known he had a scar, or had known he’d been a soldier. He let all this pass in favour of reliving the fire he saw flaring deep in James’ eyes, a burning, welling passion. By the time he returned to 221b, John was half-hard and had spent more time on what excuse to give Sherlock than the uneasy feeling he’d gotten back in the club when James had touched his scar. He had no idea the foreshadowing his body had provided for him, with that hard-hitting shiver down his spine. He wouldn’t really know until it was much too late.


	2. Different Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John retreats into his head for a bit.

Sherlock heard John let himself into the entry, heard him ascend the stairs, and heard the quiet sigh when John stepped over the threshold and realised Sherlock hadn’t moved in more than twelve hours. Sherlock took note that John was an hour, perhaps an hour and a half later than usual at getting home. It didn’t seem important.

“Have you eaten today?” John asked, shutting the door and trudging through the kitchen to start the kettle. Sherlock didn’t actually register the question, having been fully engrossed in the specimen he was examining under his high-power microscope. Something about eaten, today. Not important.

John knew he was being tuned out, and was forced to accept Sherlock’s silence as a “no”. It wasn’t as though it were a real question anyway.

“How does Thai sound?” John tried again, “That new place up the street is open until one”. The question hung dank and unanswered in the air of the flat. Having caught enough of the conversation to know that John would persist, Sherlock carefully switched off his microscope and removed his goggles. 

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock insisted curtly, turning to face John. He gave him a thorough once-over in an attempt to deduce his more recent whereabouts. Slightly rumpled hair, self-induced from running his hands through it. Nervous habit. Lumpy jumper, normal work trousers, work shoes, no indication of additional cologne. Sherlock sighed inwardly. _Not a date._ His eyes focused on John’s crotch however, and _there we go._ Sherlock had seen John completely naked on more than one occasion; usually when he’d burst in on John taking a shower after having received an urgent phone call from Lestrade. He’d never seen him aroused, however. Even through two layers of cloth it was evident that John had either sustained a full erection recently, or had been strutting round London half-erect for some time. Sherlock felt a buzz at the base of his spine.

“Whatever you say,” John sighed, reaching for their stack of takeaway menus, “I’ll get you the pad thai crispy?”

Sherlock grunted, strolled across the room to his violin, and began hacking away at the strings. John turned his back to the sound so he could hear the man on the end of the phone. After placing their order, he turned back around to face Sherlock. _Did he deduce where I’d been, or…?_

“You can stop that any time, Sherlock.” John articulated, flopping into his chair and switching on the telly. “Food’ll be here in twenty minutes”. 

Sherlock turned around to glare in John’s direction, put his violin down and leapt into his respective chair. 

“Perhaps I didn’t _want to eat_ , John,” he sneered, drawing his knees up to his chest. John sneered right back at him.

“Dunno why you’re in such a rotten mood, Sherlock,” he finally responded listlessly, “it’s not as though you even left the flat, today.” This jab rendered no response from Mr. tall-dark-and-brooding. John sighed, defeated, and focused all his energy on the news stories flashing across the screen. _Boring._ Dull. _It’s_ so _obvious, it was the jealous brother!_ John stopped his train of thought. _He was starting to_ think _like Sherlock._ John resolved to tuning out the entire sitting room, to retreating back into his head to run over the days earlier events.

Work at the clinic had been routine, mundane even. Same sort of people dealing with the same sort of ailments as any other day. The only real highlight was the soup he’d picked up from the cafeteria for lunch, a thick creamy tomato basil with a dollup of sour cream. It was rare to find something edible down there, let alone _good_ , therefore it had been a pleasant surprise when John found it. Other than his food, however, nothing stood out in his mind.

But then there was the club.

John had been decently impressed. It seemed clean, professional, definitely comfortable. The owner/bartender had been friendly and inviting, and had given John a chance for work despite his obvious physical flaws. Remembering the touch James had placed over the sensitive scar tissue on his chest, John felt an almost audible shudder course from his neck to his spine. At the mental image of James’ fiery, hungry-looking eyes, John felt arousal pool in his groin. _That_ would be a definite employee benefit, and then some.

John wasn’t gay. John fought against the label, swore up and down, and refused to even admit it to himself. What he would do – if it came down to it – is chat up attractive men at the bar, revel in their angular faces and deep, rumbling voices. John would admit he was generally attracted to the male visage, but that was it. He’d _die_ if people found out it went a bit further than that. Images flashed across his mind, John peering up through his eyelashes at some bloke who had his cock down John’s throat in some dank alleyway behind the bar. John in the receiving position, though that tended to be more of a rarity. It was usually other “straight” men who John would convince to follow him outside, would slam their hips against a cold brick wall, and fellate them into oblivion. He’d been a quick learner; had to have been, after his first week in the military. No, John would never admit that he was gay. He dated women, yes. But he fucked men all the same. 

Something about James broke something inside of John. He couldn’t place it. James had been overwhelmingly sincere, had been quick to compromise despite it all. John felt ridiculously giddy when it came down to it – like he had a schoolgirl crush – and was glad he’d have the entire evening the next day to spend in James’ company, perhaps alone. John felt hopeless. No, John wasn’t gay. But there could always be exceptions.

James broke John’s resolve on being gay. John found himself uncaring if people found out he was feeling _that –_ whatever _that_ was – towards James. John wanted to date James, to bring him round to show off to Harry, to have him stay overnight in his bed, to wake up next to the dark beauty. He wanted to fuck him into the mattress, so hard that Sherl—

John broke out of his stupor, quickly realising how careless he’d been. Sherlock was still sitting in his chair. His fingers were steepled, and he was staring straight through John. It was all John could do not to throw up or to storm out of the room. He could feel his erection pushing insistently at the cold teeth of his zipper. He pushed the heel of his hand over it, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes as he tamed himself into submission. Thankfully, the buzzer downstairs sounded, signaling the arrival of their food.

“I- I’ll get it!” John huffed, springing forth from his chair with great force. He could practically hear Sherlock’s deductions being thrown at his back. _State of arousal, sweating, oblivious to surroundings. A newer romance. Who?_

John was relieved to find his bulge had deflated enough for him to be presentable to the girl holding his takeaway. He passed over a few bills, gave her a polite smile, and dragged the food back into the flat. When he shut the door and turned to look, Sherlock’s chair was empty and his door was shut. John let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and set the food down on the table.

He’d lost his appetite too, for anything but his future boss-man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help but post another little bit of the story; it was either _get it out of my head **right now**_ or never continue writing.
> 
> So, that's why this chapter's super-short, un-beta'ed, un britpick'd, and generally pretty rough. Once I get someone to help me out however, I'm going to go back and edit and clean things up before I complete the story. I'm just not going to worry about it right now for the sake of getting the story out there instead of concerning myself with perfection.
> 
> As always, comm/crit is absolutely golden ♥


	3. Have a Drink on Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Alright, guys, here's the deal. I love each and every one of you, okay? You've all been great, all your kudos and favorites and whatnot. There are days when I get several emails notifying me of them and it makes everything that much brighter, so THANK YOU.
> 
> Reason for my absence: this wasn't supposed to go anywhere. I was just messing with the idea, but all the new people I've met at University have sung their praises of the proposed plot, all of you have commented and kudo-ed me to death. I'm not much a fanfic writer, but to hell with it, alright. Doin' it for the fans. Maybe you're all on to something? :)
> 
> UN-BETA-ED/UN-BRITPICKED. I know, I shouldn't post shit without that being done, but I haven't chosen them, okie? I'm going to if I decide to write even more. Tonight's inspiration to write at 1am, brought to you by poorly written, immensely frustrating Destiel fanfictions I've been devouring and loving and subsequently hating myself for for the past month.
> 
> And yes, this is extremely short. It's all I could muster!
> 
> Enjoy! ♥

The twelve hour stretch from when John woke up until he was supposed to be at the club _killed_ him. John wasn’t scheduled to work at the clinic, his phone remained silent well into the afternoon, and Sherlock was absolutely insufferable for no apparent reason. He was woken up by shrill violin notes sometime around 4am, and no amount of glaring or threatening death would make Sherlock waver. He was just in one of his fucking _moods_ and John knew only time would draw him out of it. So John suffered in silence, all fifteen-ish hours or so. There was reheated takeaway for lunch, and John must’ve half-drowned himself in tea. By the time 7:45 rolled around, John was bouncing on the balls of his feet with anxiety.

“I’m headed out, Sherlock,” John shouted at the closed bedroom door, “I won’t have my phone on me.” He could’ve been imagining things, but John thought he heard an unintelligible grunt coming from behind the door. He shrugged, left Sherlock to sulk or whatever he was doing, and made his way towards the club.

John was bathed in the glow of those god-awful fluorescents within minutes of leaving 221b, and his pulse picked up considerably. This was what his life was going to be like from now on? More excitement over arriving to his second job than his preferred profession? Of course, that excitement wasn’t so much drawn from the prospect of John working at a strip club, no, it was directly almost wholly at _James_ the man who had wormed his way into John’s mind as an omnipresent force. It was only as he gripped the handle to the entryway that John remembered about this being a _trial run_. He wasn’t even properly hired, yet his mind had already wandered past introductions and employment and straight into his maybe-bosses pants. John shuddered, steeling himself against his nerves, and he opened the door at last.

He wasn’t prepared to see James standing on the threshold, taking the place of the would-be bouncer, had it been a night that they were open. The man offered a small, dark and sexy smirk – which John drank in like it was nectar – before placing his hand on John’s shoulder, pulling him the rest of the way inside and over to the bar.

“I know this is by no means professional, but we need you to _loosen up_ for tonight,” James plucked a glass off the counter and pressed it into John’s hand, “This isn’t a regular occurrence either, so before you start thinking you’ll get booze every time you work for me, kill that idea. Only if you _work for me_ , perhaps then we might be talking”.

John was too stunned to drink the concoction James had given him, too shocked to move or think or breathe for God’s sake. Did he… did he just offer innuendo? James’ easy smile and hard stare affixed on John’s beet-red face broke John from his stupor.

“A-ah thank you, sir?” he tried, timidly. James just continued to smile.

“No need for that sort of formality. The only ones that call me sir are my nieces and nephews, and the unlucky souls I lure down into my basement”.

John gulped, and suddenly remembered his alcohol. Maybe that would do the job in erasing what he’d just managed to get out of James. James is a Dom, hell, James is into BDSM, is THAT what was meant by it all? Did he have a sex dungeon underneath the club? Blinking hard, John took several hardy drinks in quick succession, trying his best to avoid James’ face.

James wasn’t finished with his orders, however. “When you’ve finished with that, leave the glass on the counter and come in to the back room so we can get started”. John could only manage a curt nod toward the other man, but that was enough to send him on his way to the back of the club, leaving John a mess of nerves and anxiety and sexual repression. John took a good look around the floor of the club and sighed to himself, this time taking much smaller sips of his drink. It didn’t taste all that alcoholic, but damn, was he feeling it. As the minutes dragged on and his glass emptied, his muscles were finally able to relax and his nerves were finally calmed down. What’s the worst that could happen, really? He didn’t make the cut? No big deal. James wasn’t interested in him? His last thought before he drained his glass ghosted over the mental image of John strapped to a bed, with James’ smoldering gaze locked onto his. Heat pooled in his groin and he grasped his glass even harder before setting it on the counter (as instructed) and putting one foot in front of the other.

This was going to be a long night.

………..•*¨`*•. ☆ .•*¨`*•………….

The trial run ended up being the least of John’s worries, when it was all said and done. Hell, that had gone over quite brilliantly if he did say so himself. James had urged John into various costumes – many featuring rip-away components designed to reveal sequined booty-shorts underneath – his favorite being the priest one that ripped away to reveal black shorts with “sinner” on one side and “saint” on the other. Not once did John end up feeling as self-conscious as he would have thought. The routines James taught him that night were relatively simple as well, basic hip-swivels and pelvic thrusts. It would have been awkward, but whoo, that drink had really killed his inhibitions. Which in hindsight, John supposes was for the best.

Which brings everything to what really is the most of John’s worries. It didn’t have to do with James, perhaps distantly, but more or less Sherlock. James had sent John home with the instructions to practice, and that meant bringing home a couple of costumes to practice with. Sherlock knew everything.  He went through John’s drawers, he could tell just by the way John’s hair lay that he had showered with which shampoo, surely this wouldn’t remain the secret it needed to be. Stumbling in at half past eleven drunk on a work night wouldn’t help his case.

Stumbling toward 221b, John came to a very sudden, sobering realization. It wasn’t necessarily something new, but something he’d long since repressed. I care if Sherlock knows because Sherlock cares about me.

John was no longer in any position to converse with Sherlock as he’d planned. He was both relieved and worried to find Sherlock’s door shut the same way as it had been more than three hours previous.

Once he’d trudged upstairs, tossed his bag of costumes haphazardly into his closet, and stripped down to his pants, John was resigned to sleep – and only sleep – until there was a reason he couldn’t or shouldn’t.

That reason, as it would be, came down to the shrill violin notes carrying themselves up the staircase, through his door, and into his hung-over headspace at 4am, for the second night in a row.

**Author's Note:**

> WIP - First post within the Sherlock Fandom. Please, be nice. Crit/Comm is absolutely appreciated and will DEFINITELY help when I go to write more of this.
> 
> Oh, and this is dedicated wholly to misscassietaylor over at ff.net! Without her, it wouldn't exist. That, and I've been begging for prompts for days and she's the only one to have complied. Massive hugs to her. ♥
> 
> EDIT: I need a *beta*, especially a stranger. Someone unfamiliar with me and my writing. If someone would step forward, that'd be awesome. (;
> 
> EDIT-EDIT: I also need a Britpick'r. Get at me on tumblr (like-vanilla) if you're interested!
> 
> EDIT-EDIT-EDIT: dear lord, guys, I am so sorry for such a promising start and a 2 month hiatus to follow suit. Not going into too much detail, but I was helping care for my grandfather at the time. He passed away on April 11th, and I honestly hadn't given this story much thought since then. But I'm finished with secondary school in 3 days! Hooray! So maybe this summer will bring promise. I sure hope so! Also: I have been contacted by a couple of betas and britpick'rs that are interested, I will be contacting them as soon as I get my ass in gear with future chapters! If you sent me something by way of wanting to be a beta, please resend it. I got a whole lot of mail at the same time, and finding those offers has been incredibly difficult. I think I may have found a britpick'r, though! Thanks for all the support!


End file.
